


Nothing’s Perfect, But I’m Hoping I’ll Do, So I’ll Have To Make Do

by DeadCaffeineJunkie



Category: A Dangerous Fortune (2016), The Old Guard (Movie 2020)
Genre: Coveting, Covetousness, Fantasizing, M/M, Melancholic Ending, Mickey Miranda is fucked up, Unrequited Love, coveting thy Joe's Nicky, doppelgangers (kind of), seduction as a means to an end
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-14
Updated: 2021-01-14
Packaged: 2021-03-18 12:21:07
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,178
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28743141
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DeadCaffeineJunkie/pseuds/DeadCaffeineJunkie
Summary: Booker has pined for Nicky for some time; he’s never acted on his feelings because he respects his relationship with Joe and doesn’t want to jeopardise their friendship.But then he bumps into Micky Miranda and, well… if he can’t have Nicky, his doppelgänger will do
Relationships: Booker | Sebastien le Livre/Mickey Miranda, Booker | Sebastien le Livre/Nicky | Nicolo di Genova (unrequited), Joe | Yusuf Al-Kaysani/Nicky | Nicolò di Genova
Comments: 26
Kudos: 96





	Nothing’s Perfect, But I’m Hoping I’ll Do, So I’ll Have To Make Do

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ladyjanee](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ladyjanee/gifts).



> Title from ‘First Love’ by the Maccabees
> 
> Alternative title was ‘I only went with her ‘cause she looks like you’ from ‘Babies’ by Pulp
> 
> I don’t think you need to have seen ‘A Dangerous Fortune’ for this to make sense, but feel free to ask questions in the comments if you need to – also, you should see ‘A Dangerous Fortune’ even outside of seeing Luca on screen, it’s actually awesome with interesting female characters. I didn’t expect to enjoy it as much as I did. 
> 
> Written for laurensshitpost on tumblr for being the most patient person in the world and waiting the three months it took me to see ‘A Dangerous Fortune’ and then write this, I’m so sorry it took me so long 
> 
> Dedicated to: roadto_saturn
> 
> CONTENT WARNING: no actual non-con in this fic, but Booker has sex with Mickey while pretending he's Nicky and considers it a violation. Mickey doesn't know Booker is thinking about someone else, but it's all the same to him.

He fell for Joe first. 

Joe and Nicky were a handsome couple with a magnetism that surpassed their respective beauties; they were two people who generated a warmth between them that drew others in. 

For Sebastien, the world was a cold place; he still remembered - couldn’t forget - the depth of the cold on the razed fields of Russia. 

Hanging from a tree next to the corpses of his fellow deserters, he’d felt the excruciating needle pain as his extremities iced and blackening; relief only came as the cold turned soft and forgiving and lulled his body painlessly into death. 

And then he’d come back and the slowly closing hand that was the torture of freezing to death started again. 

Heat heralded hurt; he knew that and in retrospect he should have known better. For Sebastien, the world was a cold place.

He’d escaped the ice by himself, the hot blood spilling out from the carrion crow he’d caught hurting in that good way of a broken bone healing. He’d returned to France a traitor and a criminal and found his wife already passed. 

He didn’t think that there could be a pain worse than the agony of his first death but now he wished his heart would freeze again, even though he knew that exact pain first hand. 

He lost his wife and then, one by one, he lost his children. He’d lost his youngest years before the time he died, older than his father, his body riddled with cancer and rage and hate. Sebastien still grieved him; he just added another knotted strand to the whip for his self-flagellation, even though he knew he’d never find absolution. 

He was clenched and lost in frost, so of course he’d be drawn to the warmth of his new companions. He wouldn’t meet the fierce woman who haunted his dreams for some time – cold again, the burn of salt water stealing your air, scalding opened eyes, but that same, soft lullaby into death that he’d known too - but he was taken under the wings of Nicolo and Yusuf. 

He’d seen men find pleasure with each other before; desperate for warmth and trying to strike heat like a flint between them while huddled in a frozen scrape on the battlefield, or relaxed and easy in his homeland. 

Homosexuality had been decriminalised in France around the time he’d been born, and he’d grown up aware that it was something that some people still looked down on, but was nevertheless allowable; for his part, he’d never really spent a lot of time thinking about it. 

He’d never looked at another man before, never looked at another woman either since he’d met his wife. She was like staring into the sun, burning out his vision for anyone else, and he’d promised that she’d be the only woman he’d ever be with. 

He hadn’t expected to have to keep that promise after death, maybe didn’t need to, but he would. She lay like a grave in his heart and he’d tend to it until the day he was able to join her, even though he couldn’t see when that day would come. 

So he wasn’t scandalised by the comfortable relationship between Joe and Nicky, but he was almost intimidated by their romance, a love that he’d never seen, anywhere, even – he thought – between himself and his wife. 

They orbited each other in a constant dance, two objects that couldn’t exist without the other to hold them in balance. The way one body always had room for the other like water in a vessel, like two cogs that had spent so long working against each other that they’d worn into a perfect fit. 

So, he fell for Joe first; his thick, curly hair, the slope of his nose, that huge, sincere grin. Joe was accepting and welcoming with his enthusiasm and laugh. He had an easiness to his actions that always burned cheerful and bright. Sebastien knew he’d never be hinge and bracket with Joe the way Joe was with Nicky, but they were still able to fall into place with each other. 

He wondered if just being Joe’s friend had let him open up to the idea of Nicky. 

Nicky was slightly cooler than Joe’s exuberant flame, unobtrusive compared to Joe’s boisterous nature, more likely to stand back while Joe charged forward, just like the way they fought together. 

He wasn’t any less accommodating and receptive than Joe, but where Joe burned in jumping, licking flames, Nicky was the ambient glow of embers. It was easy for Sebastien to overlook him until he’d settled in with them a little more and was able to really _see_ Nicky. 

Nicky had an expansive love for people as a whole, which is how he saw the good or the potential for good in everyone despite some 700+ years of experience. He had a generosity of spirit that, until then, Sebastien had believed was only a concept invented by poets. He was optimistic without sacrificing pragmatism, always striving to put more good into the world than existed, and it was instinctive to him to reach out and help others. 

Joe had commented quietly to Sebastien one winter night, when the cold licked around Sebastien’s trauma and stories of a hot land he’d never known helped more than blankets to keep him warm, that he used to think that Nicky’s kindness was some form of penance for his actions during the Crusades. 

He and Nicky had been drawn to each other even then, an ouroboros of violence, but back then they’d still had space to cut down enemy warriors. They couldn’t die and so their body count outside each other climbed with their own deaths. Afterwards, when they’d killed each other to the point of love, Joe had been the most attracted to Nicky’s expansive heart. 

Nicky’s foreign beauty had to grow on him over time – it took some exposure until he found those unnerving pale eyes attractive – but the heart that made those eyes more than aesthetically beautiful had captured him at once. 

He didn’t understand how Nicky could give, and give, and give of himself again without depleting something essential inside him. He searched for a motive beyond a simple abundance of good will because he didn’t think such fathoms could be contained within one person. 

He’d rationalised that Nicky felt so much guilt for his actions during the invasion that he was trying to repent with acts of love and forgiveness in hopes of being loved and forgiven himself. That he was trying to right the perversion of his religion by living the belief that God is love. 

But then it was years later and Joe realised that he’d long since understood that this was just how Nicky functioned in the world. Nicky wouldn’t let himself be manipulated into acting against his morals, or against what he knew of God to be true, again. If the Pope’s decrees acted contrary to what Nicky knew of God then he was justified in not following them. 

He didn’t do the things he did to make amends; he was just good because it wouldn’t occur to him to act in any other way. Sometimes, the pure kindness in Nicky made Joe ache, but at least he could do things to soothe the feeling, reach out and touch and lose himself in the ocean of goodness that was Nicky. 

Sebastien knew, however, that Nicky was also more than capable and willing to fight and kill for his family, which now included Sebastien himself; that all that clarity of spirit could exist in juxtaposition with the violence of protection. 

Maybe it was what Sebastien felt was his inherent sin, his villainy, responding to the man who didn’t condemn him for that. Maybe it was that Nicky was like no man he’d ever met before, everyone else always on his mind. Maybe it was just those eyes and that mouth and the way they were set in his beautiful face – he hoped he was less shallow than that, but he knew it wasn’t true. 

Whatever it was, Sebastien fell from an attraction to Joe – who remained no less beautiful in soul, no less warm and accepting or anything that had pulled Sebastien in – and into love with Nicky. 

It was the worst thing that had happened to him since the loss of the last of his family. 

Sebastien loved Joe; he’d never had a brother but he imagined that it would be something like this. He missed his family in agony, a hole in the essence of him, but the feeling of familiarity he had with Joe was immediate. It would never let that hole inside him close, but it filled another, different gaping tear inside him that he hadn’t realised was causing him pain until it wasn’t. 

They watched games together, made bets together – usually pitting him against Nicky, because Joe had a wickedly mischievous streak in him that was a mile wide – went out to get drunk together while Nicky opted to stay at home with a book. Nicky would cook for them when they staggered in blanketed by each other’s arms, alcoholic fumes, and love: so much love; philia, storge, almost agape. 

And it wasn’t enough, because it was never eros, and never would be. Joe would come in slightly uncoordinated and wrap his arms around Nicky, mouth at his neck while Nicky pretended it was a nuisance instead of the welcome pleasure it really was.

Sebastien suffered another death whenever he saw it, hating himself for his jealous craving and wondering how many would be enough before he met his last one. 

Sebastien was tortured by his desires and he pulled away from Nicky, that terrible temptation, as a consequence, just increasing the distance that had existed between them since the first time they’d met. 

He was much closer with Joe than he’d ever been with Nicky, as though fortifying their friendship would help him resist approaching Nicky as anything other than a friend.

He knew, he _knew_ , that his cold detachment hurt Nicky; he was just relieved when his cool behaviour had become the norm and Nicky stopped trying to orchestrate ways to get them to spend time together. 

Joe still tried, because they were family and because he wanted his brother and the love of his immortality to be friends, but even he could see there was no hope in trying to manufacture a friendship that just wasn’t there. 

He’d spoken to Sebastien about it on more than one occasion, in the same way that Sebastien was sure he’d also spoken to Nicky. It took every sneaky, underhanded diversionary tactic that Sebastien had at his disposal to avoid just coming out and telling Joe that he loved Nicky.

He ducked and dodged to try and avoid telling Joe that he spent nights, and even days, thinking about being with Nicky; not only in every carnal way he could conceive, but also – and even maybe more despicable – thinking about them sharing the same gentle familiarity that Joe shared with Nicky; sharing clothes, knowing each other’s favourite drinks, favourite cups, favourite everythings, what made each other laugh, the little touches and silent conversations between two people who knew each other from the outside in. 

Sebastien just wanted Nicky and he loved Joe, loved them both and he _loathed_ himself for it. 

Roughly sixty years on from his first death, Sebastien – Booker now – came across a fluke of nature that gave him an opportunity to seize everything he’d ever wanted. 

They’d made their way to London in the 1P60’s, seeking a brief respite from blood and bodies and curious about the city that was becoming, had become, one of the largest in the world. Its population was growing, its boundaries were spreading; it was coming into its own as a political and financial hub and people from other nations were migrating to the new capital city. 

Booker, Joe and Nicky were all coming to London off the back of battle - they'd been fighting with Andromache throughout the American Civil War and before that, Joe and Nicky had been fighting in Crimea.

They’d actually mostly been acting as aid workers - quite apart from the fact that they wouldn't have it any other way if they could help it, there was the issue of the echoes of their own origin story; Christians in the Holy Land.

Booker hadn't been around for that one. Andromache had asked him to spend some time with her in America, and it had nothing to do with the fact that he wasn’t ready to come up against the Russians again yet; that it put more distance between himself and Nicky was just coincidence. 

They were all tired of the reverberating cracks of rifles, the metal on metal smack of swords and were relieved to swap that out for the audio-chaos of London. Joe was disappointed that they'd missed the Great Exhibition, but London in itself could easily be called the same.

If Andromache hadn’t chosen to stay in America, Booker was sure that she'd be out on the factory floors encouraging unionisation, exhorting women to become educated and fight against their disrespectful bosses and the dangerous and harmful conditions in which they worked.

Joe and Nicky were drawn to the different cultures and people that existed side by side in this eclectic city; for two people who had seen so much already, they were lit up by their excitement at seeing something new again. 

London had an underground system of trains, foods from different lands fused together to make completely new flavours and dishes; there was a feeling of new decadence in the city. 

Or, in most parts of the city. 

Nicky came home to their modest townhouse one day in a dark mood, immediately retreating to the room he shared with Joe. He closed the door almost silently - because despite the stereotypical Italian passion, Nicky was feline-quiet and had never been someone who slammed doors - and didn’t come back out. 

Joe followed a minute or so later, looking vaguely tired, a little defeated and gently fretting about Nicky. 

He looked towards the bedroom door like he was thinking about just knocking and entering. 

“What happened?” Booker asked. He’d rarely seen the pair in a mood like this. It was strange to feel an oppressive cloud of misery and, even rarer, deep anger coming from Nicky.

War on war had left Joe and Nicky exhausted, something more tired than Booker thought he could ever feel behind eyes that had already seen so much hate and violence. Tired and haunted by things they’d seen, almost the way Booker was haunted by dreams of dark hair thrashing around wide eyes, a soundless screaming beneath a cover of metal and rivets. 

He’d felt this sorrow lying on them before, but the anger was different coming from the normally even and level-headed Nicky. Joe wasn’t a stranger to explosive emotion, but then he always burned hot and passionate. Nicky always simmered when he was angry; this jagged fury was uncharacteristic. 

Joe shook his head, sighing heavily. “We found our way to the slum district.” He explained. 

There had been smudged fingerprints telling tales of poverty all over the city, but Joe and Nicky had wandered deliberately to the places where it was concentrated. They’d shielded a boy of maybe five from a beating by his own angry father, turned down offers of ‘entertainment’ from girls no older than eleven or twelve, saw old men and women begging even there, the poorest of places, listlessly going through the motions like they were just filling the time until they died.

All this surrounded by the wilfully ignorant and purposely cruel attitudes of the wealthy; of course Nicky was angry at this stark dichotomy. 

Booker watched Joe move to the bedroom door, call Nicky’s original name quietly. Saw the door open to allow Joe in, and Booker ached to be the one with permission to enter that sanctum. 

He pulled on his coat and left the room to see these slums for himself because it couldn’t be worse than staying where he was. 

Against Joe’s will to do what was right and Nicky’s genuine care for others, Booker often felt that he was selfish and indifferent to people in need of help. That wasn’t to say that he’d never help someone else, but he didn’t necessarily go out of his way to provide assistance, didn’t often become as personally involved in the lives of other people the way that Joe and Nicky did. 

He might have considered himself broken – sometimes did – if not for Andromache and the similarities between the pair of them. She had the weariness of decades upon decades of caring for the brief lives of other people only to see them snuffed out; she’d had time to see the inevitably cyclical nature of humanity’s history and could only end up asking what the point was. 

Joe and Nicky would try to save a life for the sake of that one life. Andy and Booker were too numb, too defeated, to try and change anything. 

So, it was strange that Booker would intervene when he saw three men kicking and beating another as he lay on the ground, defending himself only with a raised arm. Something about it sparked a sense of familiarity in Booker; he could empathise with this man beaten down with the odds against him. 

The men dispersed before Booker could get close enough to intercede physically – maybe his approach was enough to send them away – but Booker still stuck around to help the battered victim.

He leaned down and reached a hand out. 

“They were really laying into you.” He commented casually, his English still diluted with his original accent.

He pulled the reeling man to his feet and then fell back a little himself when he realised the beaten man was Nicky. 

The red rage he suddenly felt drop over him like a cold rush, like the cold snow of his death, was only overcome by his complete bewilderment. 

“Nicolo?!” He exclaimed, loud and startled. 

Nicky looked at him with an expression crumpled in confusion, blood in his face, his hair in disarray.

“Do you know me?” he asked, his own voice thickened in an accent that sounded maybe Spanish, maybe Italian. Much like Nicky sounded when he was especially relaxed or a little drunk and soporific, head in Joe’s lap, lapsing in and out of old Genoese. 

There was no recognition in Nicky’s eyes whatsoever, and like a cloud changing shapes in the sky, Booker slowly realised that this wasn’t Nicky. There were subtle little differences in the shape of his jaw, how his mouth moved when he spoke, the little difference in the curve of his nose; subtle enough that Booker wouldn’t have seen them if he didn’t spend too much time studying a man who wasn’t his. 

The resemblance was still uncanny. If he wasn’t studying the face before him, if he hadn’t spent so much time studying Nicky himself, he would have said this was Nicolo; even now if he looked away he still struggled to remind himself that this wasn’t him. 

“I’m just a benevolent stranger.” He finally responded as not-Nicky brushed his clothes down. “Sebastien le Livre.” He offered his name along with his hand. 

The familiar stranger took his hand and shook it as firmly as he could while still holding his ribs with the other, still bleeding from his head and down his face and suspicion in his eyes. “Miguel Miranda. Micky.” 

Booker could see Micky’s face and he knew that if he’d seen those eyes first he wouldn’t have been able to confuse Nicky for this man. There was something hungry in him, a hunger that stretched beyond food or lust or other physical objects.

It was a hunger he’d sometimes seen in the faces of his fellow soldiers in his first life, a ravenous desire for anything that could pull them from their situation, some nameless dearth of something in the soul. 

Micky was dressed in a comparatively fine coat, out of place in this alley in the slums even bloodied and dirty from the ground, but there was something animal behind his eyes looking out. 

Booker saw despair, fury, weariness and a sick self-disgust there, recognised it as the same shade that lurked in the eyes that he saw when he looked in the mirror. 

This was Nicky without the things inside him that made him Nicky. Booker wondered for a moment if this doppelganger stood as some kind of balance, a version of Nicky on the dark scale of the spectrum. 

It barely mattered. Any shade of Nicky was still Nicky and Booker found that he still felt love regardless, the same aching love for this stranger that he felt for his Nicky all wrapped up in sympathy and a desire to do something to gentle the snapping, feral thing before him. 

“You’re bleeding.” Booker said, attempting Italian. “Can I walk you to your home?”

Micky looked surprised to hear a familiar language and seemed genuinely relieved to be able to speak it, even if it was hesitant with embarrassment. “I find myself… between places at the moment.” He answered in kind. “I was staying with a friend, but-” he shrugged and didn’t seem inclined to elaborate.

“You could still stay with a friend.” Booker commented. “Come, we’ll find a hotel.”

If the surprising level of generosity this stranger showed him put Micky into something of a panic, he wasn’t telling. On balance, a strange man asking him to a hotel room barely made the list of the situations that had bolted out of his control. 

Micky felt like an organ-grinder’s monkey, balancing little balls on moving platforms; any wrong move was going to make any number of balls fall, and they’d break when they hit the floor, crashing loud enough to bring the others down. 

He was pimping himself out to the vicious old matriarch of the Pilaster family, entwining himself with her to similarly entwine himself with her schemes, but only as long as they led to his own goal. 

He needed her to remove the old man who ran the bank – and ended up having to do that himself after all – then remove the other old man, Samuel Pilaster, from his new position with rumours and disgrace. 

All to move Edward into a place where he could be taken advantage of. 

He was already playing with Edward and Edward’s feelings, sadistic and bored; he couldn’t deny he enjoyed abusing the power he had over his supposed-friend when he’d always been the one under his father’s thumb, under his father’s fist. 

Even worse than the violent beatings he took from the man was the knowledge that he’d let him down; he was useless and pathetic in the eyes of his father. 

And now he had to lead his life for his father’s gain, the pursuit of money and the pursuit of power through violence. 

He was just a means to an end as much as Edward was, as much as Augusta was. 

They were all just pawns and he was so tired of playing chess that it hurt in his joints, in his bones, under his skin. 

Was there anything simple, straightforward left? Only sex. Just fucking, absent of power plays and hidden motives. 

He went through London society wanted by everyone, man and woman alike, but being involved with any of them came with scandal, secrets, societal headaches and always the threat of revenge with the regret that sometimes came afterwards

The only honest sex he could get anymore was by paying for it, and he definitely wasn’t above that. Even then, when he went out with Edward it was still about power plays and things left unsaid. 

He recognised the look in his new friend, in Sebastien’s, eyes; he’d been seeing it in one way or another since he’d been fourteen and started to grow into his gangly limbs and odd joints. This man wanted him and Micky was really in the mood to get what he wanted too. 

He sat on the rim of the bathtub in the opulent hotel room, impressed by his surroundings even though he was used to moving in the circles of the upper class. 

Sebastien had paid in some foreign coinage that Micky hadn’t been able to sneak a proper look at, but it seemed to be genuine and worth a lot judging by the excitement that lit the face of the man behind the counter. 

They were given one of the best rooms in the place and his new benefactor still looked a little bored by all the opulence; by everything, in fact, except Micky himself. He knew he was beautiful, objectively, but the attention Sebastien was giving him was intense even by his standards. It was as though there was something beyond his looks that Sebastien wanted; it made him uneasy. 

He hid his nervousness as he perched in the bathroom, his head held still by long, gentle fingers against his chin as Sebastien cleaned his face. The man was as gentle with the swipes of cotton that cleared blood and dirt away as he was with the fingers on Micky’s face.

Micky was pliant in that hold, letting Sebastien turn his head and tip it back as needed. He cleared out the wounds on Micky’s face and held pressure against them until the bleeding slowed, then stopped. He dabbed up the grimy, bloody water that the cotton left behind on his skin with the corner of a towel that probably cost more than a year’s salary for some of the working people in the slums. 

Sebastien’s eyes were on the wounds on Micky’s face, so Micky took the opportunity to look at Sebastien.

He had a pleasant face, although there was something scored in there that spoke of a sorrow with more depth than he’d ever seen; something unknowable. 

Micky liked his nose, his eyes, his brow. He liked the hands that soothed his hurts and how he hadn’t used his height to loom over or crowd Micky; no attempt at physical power play. He wanted to run his fingers through the lengths of that hair. 

He’d seen want in Sebastien’s eyes, clearly desire for his body by the way Sebastien had studied him and his face as he was pulling him up from the ground, but there was something else there too.

He couldn’t recognise it, something heated, but not like lust; heat that seemed to want to envelop him, not burn him up. Something there that seemed older than the short time they’d been together, like the sorrow he still saw there. 

Micky wondered who this man really was who had older eyes than his face, more sorrow and softness in him than Micky could explain for someone Sebastien’s age. 

He gave into the urge to reach up and slide his fingers through Sebastien’s hair, once and then again; the man didn’t so much as twitch, allowing it, his eyes moving from Micky’s own, to his mouth, and back. 

Micky tipped his face up, leaned in towards Sebastien and the universal request for a kiss was answered. Sebastien’s mouth was dry against his own, hesitant for a moment before Sebastien cupped his hand against Micky’s cheek and deepened it; Micky was startled at the reverence in that kiss. 

And he wasn’t paying for it this time, not with money or manoeuvres or his body; he could just let it happen. 

He was going to let it happen. 

If Booker didn’t look at Micky’s eyes it was easy to pretend that this was Nicky – it was something he’d particularly hate himself for later on. 

For now, it was all that he had to do to lose himself in his fantasy. 

He drew Micky up from the bathtub and out into the bedroom without breaking the kiss, his hands greedy and anxious against Micky’s body. He turned them with a fluid motion to push Micky back down on the bed, already unbuckling his trousers as he watched the other man settle. 

Even though Micky’s body was softer, leaner, more pampered civilian than the strong, lean-muscled warrior’s frame that was Nicky, he still found it easy to ignore, to pretend. 

He undressed and Micky followed suit, arching his hips in a filthy arc to rid himself of his own trousers, tugging at the buttons of his shirt only to throw it off like he’d done this a million time before; if he had, Booker didn’t care.

He knelt up on the foot of the bed, looked down at Micky lying unashamed and brazen beneath him, lazily drawing his hand up his own cock into hardness. It was easy to see Nicky here below him instead, bold and comfortable in his nudity, right for a man who had lived many human lives over. 

But Booker saw the red areas that promised bruises on Micky’s ribs and chest, the soft areas of his stomach and his hips; it made him feel tender towards Micky, seeing him as he himself, the vulnerable mortal man he was for a moment. 

He lay down and kept his eyes on Micky’s face, kissing all the places that had been at the other end of a kick or a hit with a gentle, soft mouth, unhappy when he tasted blood. Micky sighed below him, curling his fingers into Booker’s hair and scratching his nails lightly against Booker’s scalp. 

It was unusual for Micky to do this with someone who didn’t mind taking it slow. There was passion here, but it wasn’t the intense, clawing, feral thing he was used to. It was nice.

He tugged up a little and Booker went as he was beckoned, flicking a tongue over a convenient nipple on his way up Micky’s body before leaning up and kissing him again. 

Although Micky hooked his heel over the back of Booker’s leg, he seemed just as ready to spend time kissing as Booker wanted to. Like this, with his eyes closed and their mouths pressed together, it was easier than ever to convince himself that it was Nicky below him. 

His kisses savoured, his thumbs stroking against the sides of his fantasy of Nicky’s face, against his temples, down the points of his jaw. His touch was more than passionate; he was careful, worshipful, loving. 

Micky under him shuddered and whined just at that kiss, just the touch on his face, sounding surprised like this depth of affection was unexpected, maybe even uneasy like it was unwanted. 

Booker suddenly realised he was maybe projecting too hard and purposely pulled himself back. He broke the kiss so they could breathe, just soft panting between their mouths from their proximity. 

He could feel Micky hard and already leaking under him, the wet tip of his cock rubbing against Booker’s stomach. He slid his body down a little and back up, grinding down on Micky and pulling a delicious moan from that familiar but not familiar mouth. 

He had to lean down and kiss him again, but this time it was more heightened between them, not quite frantic, but almost. Booker hadn’t been with another woman since his wife passed, still loyal to her, but men were a different matter. 

He’d been nervous the first time, terrified he’d be hurt, that he’d hurt his partner. He steeled himself to get through it with the craven idea that if he was ever able to do anything, be anything, with Nicky, he’d need to know what to do. 

The experience only worsened his desires, because now he knew what he could have, what it would be like. Now he knew how it might feel to make love to Nicky. When the nightmares of Quynh drowning and drowning again under water left some space for him to dream, he dreamed of Nicky under him, just as Micky was now. 

He dreamed the way Nicky would arch under him, how his hands would hold Nicky at the curve of his back like it was porcelain, how he would kiss Nicky’s sternum and lick the sweat from his chest.

He’d wake and be unable to look Nicky or Joe in the eye, just another layer of self-hate to carry.

On the other side, he now had more than a few decades or so of experience under his belt; whatever this was going to be, he wanted it to be good.

Micky huffed a sigh under him that sounded vaguely hurt at his distraction, drawing Booker’s attention back. He gave Micky a kiss in apology and then sat up, straddling his knees. 

He looked down at Micky looking up at him, positioned himself so that his cock was bumping up against Micky’s and curled his hand around them both, stroking firmly. 

Micky’s hips twisted in an almost buck underneath him, his movements subdued by Booker’s weight on top of him. 

“How do you want to do this?” Booker asked, keeping to Italian, his hand moving slow enough to be torment. He’d take anything Micky was willing to give him.

“Fuck me.” Micky panted under him. It was his turn to let someone else do the work for a change. He wanted this moment to be a complete break from his usual life, to give up the pursuit of power and control that was closing around him like a slow fist. He was tired of being the knife. 

That and Sebastien’s cock was huge and he wanted that in him. He wanted it to make him ache. He wanted to hurt because he asked for it this time, not because someone else decided he needed his teeth kicked in or his head split open.

“Yeah, fuck me, come on.” He said again, his sudden grin enthusiastic and playful. 

Booker smiled back, reached up with his free hand and drew his thumb over that grin, pushed the tip of it into Micky’s mouth and laughed softly when Micky bit down on it with sharp teeth, ungently.

“Okay, okay.” He agreed, then let go of their cocks with one last twist of his hand against the head. 

He rose up on his knees again and moved up the bed until he was kneeling over Micky, a knee on either side of Micky’s head. He stroked his cock over the mouth he did and didn’t know, reaching down to push his thumb in against the corner where his lips met and prying down his jaw.

“Come on, open up. Get me wet and I’ll see about fucking you.” 

Micky smiled briefly, then opened his mouth wide, just a wet hole for Booker to put his cock into.

Booker went in at an odd angle but it didn’t seem to matter to Micky. He swallowed Booker in abruptly, his hands came up to grab onto Booker’s ass and pull him further into his mouth; he took cock down until he choked, messy and hungry and determined to make Booker lose his mind.

Booker was losing his mind. 

He might have experience on Micky but he had nothing on the man’s aggression; Micky sucked cock like it was a fight and he was determined to win. Booker rocked his hips into Micky’s mouth but he wasn’t controlling anything here. 

It was almost embarrassing how little time it took before he was pulling back with a gasp, sounding like he’d been the one with a dick down his throat. 

“Fuck, you’re good at that.” He panted. 

Micky’s slightly wet grin was like a flash in the dark, a stiletto unsheathed. It knocked Booker back a little, because it wasn’t Nicky’s grin. 

Booker had almost catalogued Nicky’s smiles; they came in a variety of flavours, all of them subtle, the deepest ones always for Joe. 

Joe – now there was a man who could smile. Joe’s smile brought out an answering smile in anyone he pointed it at, and especially from Nicky. They could communicate with just that, a wordlessness that grew naturally from spending centuries together. 

Micky coughed to clear his throat and it brought him back from his momentary lapse, shifting down Micky’s body until he was at mouth level. He cradled the side of Micky’s face maybe too tenderly as he kissed him and reached down to palm over Micky’s cock. 

It was a tease, almost mean against how sweetly he’d cupped Micky’s face, and Booker relented by changing his grip and stroking Micky’s cock properly, circling his thumb to spread wetness over the tip. Micky bit his bottom lip and shifted up against Booker’s touch. 

Booker kissed him again. “How would you like it?” 

Micky didn’t seem to have to think long, as though even now, even steeping in pleasure, his brain was still sharp, still on. “I don’t care.” He panted, then shrugged. “Under you. Any way.” 

Booker liked kissing Micky – it was still easier to pretend it was someone else below him when he did, not looking into those calculating shark eyes. 

He leaned back and looked over his shoulder to the bathroom, scanned over the side table, then back to Micky. “Beard oil?” he asked, wondering if that would be suitable as any kind of lubricant.

Micky shook his head and reached out to take Booker’s hand. He pulled it to his mouth with his eyes burning against Booker’s like a fire stoked for forging swords; he took in Booker’s index and middle fingers and didn’t so much suck on them as bathe over them with his tongue. 

He used his grip on Booker’s wrist to pull back and let those fingers go, so wet that they dripped onto his own chin. “Just this.” 

Booker groaned and moved down a little, hiked one of Micky’s legs up and apart a little and used two fingertips to stroke the little mouth of Micky’s hole, pressing his fingers in maybe a little too fast. “Okay?” he asked, breathless. 

Micky nodded and arched his hips, impatient. “Yes, yes, go.” He muttered, almost annoyed. 

Booker was a little hesitant – he’d never want to cause Nicky pain; he didn’t want to hurt Micky – but Micky actually growled under him and he pushed them in. 

It wasn’t smooth enough, it didn’t feel like enough slick, but the sound Micky made was in no way a noise of pain and he rolled his hips down to take Booker’s fingers in faster.

Booker had somehow lost control of the situation somewhere; he tried to wrest some back by pressing a hand down on Micky’s hip to hold him still while he experimentally pushed a third finger in against those too-tight muscles.

It had to hurt, but Micky just laughed breathlessly. 

Booker was a little worried at _that_ reaction and started pulling his fingers out, only to have Micky’s legs clamping around his hips, stilling him. 

“It’s okay, I’m okay, it’s good, very good, keep going.” 

Booker looked unsure, but his partner was insistent and he was reassured by the hot leap of pleasure in Micky’s expression when he pushed all three fingers in further than he’d previously dared.

“Not hurting you?” he asked softly, still worried. 

Micky shook his head emphatically. “No, more.”

“More? Another finger?” Booker wasn’t sure he was comfortable with that, no matter what Micky said. He wondered, for a moment, if that would matter. 

“No, no, you. Your cock, I want your cock, fuck, fuck me.”

Well, Micky really knew what he wanted, when he wanted it, and Booker didn’t think he had it in him to argue _that_.

He drew his fingers out and spat in his hand before making an attempt to lube himself up a little more for this. He hiked Micky’s hips almost up into his lap and readied his cock with the other, pushing it up against Micky’s barely ready hole. 

He was going to ask, to check again, if Micky was sure about doing this with so little preparation, but it seemed that Micky had hit the limit of his patience and couldn’t wait around to give his consent yet again.

He hooked a heel around Booker’s hip to pull him in, pushed down and back with his own hips and Booker was in him as easy as that – or not so easy; if it wasn’t uncomfortable for Micky, it still was for Booker. Micky was too tight with such poor prep and the way he clamped down, enough that Booker tried to pull back a little, take it slow.

Micky seemed to feel differently from the way he whined when he felt Booker stop, bucking again in a way that was similar to a frustrated stamped foot. 

He muttered something to himself, and even though he and Booker had been getting along perfectly well in Italian, this was a language different enough and quiet enough that Booker didn’t have the ear for it – still, he got the impression he was being cussed out.

That was enough even for how far Booker was willing to go for a fantasy; he snarled, grabbed a firm hold of Micky’s hips and fucked into him, almost to punish him. It didn’t work out that way; Micky moaned and his head lay back, finally giving control over to Booker. 

Booker had imagined this a little less rough, a little more tender, but he knew that Micky would complain again and he didn’t think his ego could take that. When he thought about doing this with Nicky, when he dreamed of Nicky, it was slow and sweet; he’d be in awe of Nicky and Nicky would be in awe of him. 

His dangerous dreams had rarely been this animal, this insistent, but this wasn’t bad. He could maybe see Nicky like this too, if he could stoke the quiet embers within Nicky to catch flame; yeah, he could see Nicky wild like this underneath him – it was Nicky’s head turned to the side, Nicky’s mouth open and breathing wet against the pillows, Nicky’s lone hand knotted in the sheets while the other bruised little marks into Booker’s arm. 

Micky peeked a look at him and the look there made Booker’s thrusts falter. As much as Micky’s body was softer than the carefully carved weapon that was Nicky, this thing that lived behind his eyes was not. It made Booker think of guillotines and bayonets and weapons he was yet to see. There was misery there, something trapped and ready to gnaw its own leg off to get free.

He used his momentary lapse to lean his body over Micky, far enough that he could push his mouth against the corner made between Micky’s throat and shoulder to bite kisses there. He’d maybe moved on the pretence that he could pull back and lunge deeper into Micky like this, which was true, but it also stopped him from catching Micky’s eye and seeing the stark lie he was trying to believe.

Micky’s breath came a little more shallow now, his body curled up and weighted down by Booker’s body in this new position; it had to be hurting his ribs, but from the sound of him he wasn’t having a bad time. 

He let go of the bedding to smack his hand against Booker’s shoulder and hang on there instead, his nails digging purple marks into Booker’s skin that would be gone before Micky even had a chance to look for them. 

His hand on Booker’s arm moved to his hip to try and pull him closer, deeper, impossibly deep, like there was something in him that he wanted Booker to destroy, his teeth bared. 

It was easier, for Booker, like this. Hiding his face against his partner’s neck, against the side of his face, he could almost smell Nicky there. His movements became less frantic, but Micky didn’t complain because he could sacrifice speed for depth, for the smoothness of motion that came with it.

The tense wire of Micky’s frame softened out as Booker went from frantic rutting to long, slow screwing. His fingers dug in a little less, his body moving with Booker’s now instead of into it.

The sound he made when Booker bit into his neck and sucked was soft and almost kittenish, completely unlike any other sound he’d made that night.

The closer he was to coming, the quieter he became, all that raging intensity curling in on itself, waiting. 

Booker licked up the column of Micky’s neck and told himself he was tasting Nicky. If he kept his sight restricted to dark hair, a confident jawline, the sweet curve of a throat, he could be Nicky.

He murmured sweet words against bared skin in muddied French, feeling himself close up as he drew close. He pushed one hand between their clasped bodies and curled his hand around Nicky’s cock which was hard and sticky-wet between their stomachs, letting his pushes into Nicky’s body move Nicky up into his hand. 

He rubbed his thumb sloppily over the dripping head of Nicky’s cock and his moan was a buzzing against Nicky’s throat. 

“Nicky, fuck, come for me beloved.” He murmured there and then bit down hard enough not to break the skin but to draw blood up under it.

Micky snarled when he came and that restrained energy snapped back out from him, his fingers cruel and careless as they dug into whatever part of Booker they were holding onto. 

The fist-tight squeeze of him on Booker’s cock had Booker following him over almost immediately, almost together, nearly sobbing Nicky’s name into his neck. Micky didn’t notice the difference, barely at all. 

There were a handful of trembling, shivering minutes where Micky lay catching his breath and Booker lay hiding in his pretence as though he was trying not to wake up, to stay in a dream.

Micky groaned and lifted his arms up over his head in a stretch and the moment broke. 

Booker looked up and Nicky disappeared leaving this changeling behind. He bent his head to kiss Micky as he carefully but messily pulled out of him and Micky wasted no time in turning away from him and lying on his front on the hotel bed with a satisfied sigh, legs spread carelessly.

It was Booker who felt awkward about his own come running down between Micky’s thighs, the come over his own stomach. He stumbled on strain-weak legs into the bathroom and returned with a half-damp towel to clean them both off.

Micky hummed in comfort and stretched out again, less like a cat and more like the extending curl of a serpent.

“A benevolent stranger indeed.” He said with a low chuckle in the words. 

He was content. He was well-fucked, hurting pleasantly, feeling energised and tranquil at the same time. He felt like he’d managed a successful and well-earned break from plots and plans and machinations. He’d gotten what he’d wanted and he hadn’t had to seduce, trick or fool anyone into doing it for him. 

Booker felt used by himself. He felt dirty and sick for having thought about one man while he was fucking another, for thinking about Nicky at all while he fucked a complete stranger who just happened to share his face.

He ran a hand across Micky’s calf absently, because he thought he should. Micky yawned and then nuzzled into the pillows. 

“I need to go.” Booker said, trying to sound apologetic. 

“Mm. Can I stay here?” 

“Of course, the room’s booked for the night. Check out in the morning.” Booker reminded. 

He got up and dressed, quiet in his introspection. He knew this was the closest he would ever come to having Nicky and it made him sick. He’d violated Nicky by doing this and his friend would never know. 

When Booker came home, Nicky would give him one of those genuine smiles that came through his eyes and his mouth and his heart and would offer his open hand because he thought Booker would never bite it. 

And Booker would go to sleep that night and he’d dream of someone locked away in the dark, screaming under punishing pressure, suffocated again and again and maybe he’d dream of Quynh as well. 

He gathered his things, tidied the bathroom a little and then came back into the bedroom to say goodbye.

Micky seemed asleep; Booker felt guilty at the relief he felt, so he just kissed the bared shoulder before him and didn’t think of Nicky at all. 

He opened the door and turned to take one last look at the room, one last look at this familiar stranger and startled when he saw Micky looking back; his expression was hollow for one brief slice of a second before he seemed to pull something back up to present to Booker, trying to cover for the dearth of something in his soul. 

Micky’s eyes were cold. His smile was cold. Like the snows in Russia.

**Author's Note:**

> I've written 'Mickey' as 'Micky' because it's written as 'Micky' in the book (or the one that I read) 
> 
> I hope you enjoyed, especially you few Old Guard/Dangerous Fortune fans. 
> 
> And laurensshitpost, again, I'm SO sorry this took 500 years.


End file.
